Ned

I’m at Fido again.  Nashville's a lovely place this time of year and it’s a gorgeous evening, the sky an unspoiled canvas of deepening blues and pomegranite pinks.  I’m reflecting on how much time I spend in coffee shops, ruminating on the nature of this and that.  Tonight, it’s mostly “that”- that coffee shop in Seattle, just up the block from my old apartment where, in my previous life, I’d hunker down and put my thoughts on paper.  

One particularly dreary afternoon, I'm recalling, I create a composite character inspired by recent events- a gig played literally to zero people, my recently broken up band and a roommate cooking fish in the microwave.  I call him Ned.  Ned, I write, is a real piece of shit.  I bet that son of a bitch rocks loafers without socks.  Ned antagonizes clowns at the circus, knowing kids will be scarred for life.  Ned, that unspeakable, reeking pile of human garbage, is vegan but happily sports a leather man purse, that hypocrite douche.  This goes on for a while.  

Ned, I eventually reveal, is ticklish.  Oh, he doesn’t like to admit it but, if you land a solid tickle, Ned will squeal like a piglet.  Ned doesn’t talk about it much, but his neighbor’s elderly and he walks her dog on the days when her hip’s acting up.  Ned knows that the server at his favorite diner is a single parent who works two jobs.  He tips $100.  This goes on for a while.

It may seem like a silly exercise but, over the course of 500 words, Ned transforms from a narcissistic troll into a guy just trying to do the right thing.  I don't like him, but I no longer want to push him into oncoming traffic.  I'll sit with him I guess, listen for a while.  It seems like there's more to Ned's story.  

On this rainy afternoon in Seattle, I'm feeling like nothing and going nowhere.  Anger is easy and comfortable.  Maybe there’s another way?

Maybe.  

The Ballad of Metal Chris

It’s fall of 2012 and our first time playing Hamburg, Germany.  I’ve stuffed my face with Currywurst and am appropriately drunk, all before noon.  Also before noon, I’ve endured our proudly alcoholic, aggressively pierced bus driver, Metal Chris, confessing in heavily accented English that his wife no longer loves him, neither does the woman he left her for.  I can drink more than you, he says, because I have hate in my heart.  Later in the evening, he records our organ player Greg’s voicemail greeting.  

Before he records Greg’s voicemail greeting, I disappoint Metal Chris, twice.  The first way I disappointment Metal Chris is by, as he puts it, displaying an American reluctance regarding stimulation (Metal Chris is German, but his english easily is better than mine).  We are, he informs me, mere steps from the Red Light District, and here’s the thing about transvestites- she’s a woman now, and she KNOWS.  Oh, she KNOWS and, trust me, let her teach you.  

I decline.  You’re a coward, says Metal Chris.

We play the show.  This is where I disappoint Metal Chris for the second time.  On this tour, each band member’s given a solo feature, and tonight’s gig isn’t a great one for me.  I saw Modest Mouse a while back.  Half way through their set, Isaac Brock stops singing, looks down at his hands and declares his guitar sounds like actual shit.  That’s how I feel about our Hamburg show. 

Metal Chris is in the audience, a rare thing for a bus driver.  Post show, he grabs me by the shoulders and looks me straight in the eyes.  Metal Chris is not a beautiful man.  He looks, in his own words, like a feral Unicorn's nightmare (his english is, again, excellent).    He shakes his head, mockingly slowly.  Coward, says Metal Chris.  You’re a coward.  

Having played a mediocre guitar solo and declined sexual congress with a transvestite prostitute, it becomes clear to me I must Regain Metal Chris’s Trust.  How does a jet lagged, cowardly American win back the favor of a belligerent, adulterous career drinker with a mythical creatures fetish? 

Chocolate, obviously.  I break free from Metal Chris's disapproving gaze, fumble through my backpack and produce a snickers bar.  For you, I tell Metal Chris, I’d deliver the world.  He laughs.  You are not a coward after all, he assures me, but risk becoming fat.  I’ve never felt so validated. 

Sleepy Skrillex

Skrillex is taking a nap in a hammock.  I mean, why not?  His posse's loitering, confused, face drugs kicking in- how, after all, can one heap adulation upon and bask in the glory of said hipster DJ while he's contentedly sawing wood?  It’s 2012, our first swing through Hang Out Fest in Gulf Shores, AL.  My life has changed completely almost over night. 

A few months prior, I’d been teaching guitar lessons and bouncing around from band to band.  It was suggested to me, very lovingly, that I’d make a great therapist- perhaps I should consider going back to school?  Face facts, Trevor- if it was going to happen, it would've happened by now.  You’re never making it.  And that’s ok, we love you.  But, please, let it go.  This was pre-Frozen, mind you, so little empowerment's attached to that statement.  Rather, resignation.  

Defeat.  

It’s strange, the whole thing.  It's registering, in the sweltering Alabama heat a half decade ago, that I’m a full-time touring musician, playing in this quirky band, everything’s shiny and new and I’m so excited I can hardly sleep.  We’re still in a van at this point and stage hands chuckle as we beep beep beep in triumphant reverse, wedging ourselves between the Port-a-Potties and Switchfoot's tour bus. 

I’m thinking this is gloriously unexpected, and thank you whatever higher power's casting its omniscient gaze in my direction 'cause I need this.  Finally, after all the years and opportunities evaporated, I'm, well, here.  Just here.

2012 is a year of so many firsts- first open bar at a big music festival, first celebrity sighting where I have the same VIP access.  First time playing the Gorge, first time on national television, first time being mistaken for John Mayer.  There're other firsts, too.  First time landing in Seattle, depressed and jet lagged, heading to an apartment where half the stuff’s in boxes.  First time packing up my half, renting a storage unit.  First time knowing there’s a number I can’t call anymore.

That was five years ago, almost to the day.  A lot has changed, thankfully.

It's still strange, the whole thing.  I hope that never changes.  

'Cause You've Gotta Start Somewhere

Someday, my heavily photoshopped countenance with dominate media outlets worldwide.  But not this day.  

This day, I’m a little known guitar player, songwriter and singer- a song and dance man who, objectively, can't dance for shit.  That said, I've been dealt a reasonably decent hand over here.  My full time band pays me a livable wage.  I’ve traveled the world, picking and grinning, several times over.  I have elite status on several major airlines, the kind of fancy that fattens you up on complimentary dark chocolates but only occasionally gets you upgraded.  My dumb face has even been on national TV a few times.  And yet, even to diehard Allen Stone fans, I’m largely an abstraction.  Why have I been so reluctant to share more of myself and art with the handful of folks who might be interested?  

Judgment?  Not really- I want people to hear my music and saying more dumb crap publicly would do me good.  Failure?  Sure.  I mean, all creative people fall in love with an idealized version of themselves, hence the photoshop and egregious auto-tuning of carefully sculpted pseudo vulnerability.  I'm as guilty as anyone.  

I think it’s this- when you spend most of your time strumming along in the stage left shadows, it’s easy thinking this muted version of yourself is what the machine requires rather than the full, raw flavor.  As I sit her, tippity-tapping away outside the Frothy Monkey on a gorgeous Nashville evening, I'm feeling more like an obliterated, boiled-to-shit bowl of green beans, brown and unappetizing, rather than the crisp, in-season offering I know I am.  Yes, I've taken this metaphor too far, I know, and I haven't written in a while so I'm working out the muscle here.  It's fun!  I can still string words together, it turns out.   

I’m not a genius, thank god.  I can’t imagine what that must be like- it’s hard enough being smart enough to know how little’s really up to you.  But I really enjoy, you know, doing stuff.  So, here’s to sharing- music, tons of new music, blogs, podcasts, videos, photos and so much more.  I dig bumbling along in real time, and it's long overdue. 

So, join me!  It’ll likely be pretty good, I think, and failing upward is a noble pursuit.  2017, I’m coming for ya!